


crybaby

by cowboyflesh (cowboymeat), lambchops (lambmeat)



Category: Cyberpunk 2077 (Video Game)
Genre: Angry Sex, Blood, Bottom Johnny Silverhand, Forced Submission, Impact Play, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Praise Kink, Spit As Lube, Trans Male V (Cyberpunk 2077)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:27:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29718564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowboymeat/pseuds/cowboyflesh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lambmeat/pseuds/lambchops
Summary: Whining, shaking, and cockdrunk is the only natural state Johnny knows where he drops all the preformative ego and bullshit. It only took V punching his lights out and smacking his head against the hood of his prized Porsche to get there.
Relationships: Johnny Silverhand/V
Comments: 13
Kudos: 80





	crybaby

Desert sun weighs heavy on the hulking mass of metal. Burning dust fills V’s nose as the vehicle is brought up to speed, whining and grumbling as he stomps on the gas pedal for the first time in fifty years. 

A sigh falls past his lips, interrupted only by the din of the radio as it pumps music through the modest cabin. Just a matter of time until he’s reprimanded for it, scolded for pushing her limits without even warming her up. Can practically hear the annoyance in Johnny’s words before he springs forth from his cerebrum and materializes in all of his bitchiness. 

“What?” V asks flatly as the shifting itch in the corner of his eye announces Johnny’s presence. His arms are already crossed—he can tell without even looking. 

For dramatic bravado that V can’t even fathom, irritation drips off of the rockerboy and sinks deep into his psyche like parched soil during first rain. It’s mutual. 

He doesn’t speak until V lifts his foot off the gas and the Porsche coasts against the wind. It soothes over the anger somewhat, but the bristling is still palpable. 

“Going for a joy ride, V?” he asks rhetorically, peering at the merc over his glasses. “Gonna fuckin’ crash her, too, or are you happy just trying to shoot the engine out?”

“Fuck off. I’m not in the mood.”

It’s the truth; his nerves are overtaxed and fried with the effort of breaking the car out of its corrugated prison. Stealth isn’t exactly his forte—though it can be, if need be—and there wasn’t much stealthy about a car sputtering alive again in the middle of an enemy compound. And even less about practically ramming it through the narrow gap in the fence. 

All so that he could avoid Johnny breathing down his neck about it. For all of a few hours until he finds something else to go on a tirade about. He didn’t even get forty-five minutes—now it’s an association game to see if he can bring it back to Arasaka somehow.

Silverhand mutters something under his breath, unintelligible over the whittering of the neglected car. He knows how to pluck at V’s temper just right in order to throw him into fury. Grinds at him like a missed clutch. 

They sit in silence. He can feel Johnny’s nose crinkle in distaste as they accelerate again, picking up speed as they pass desiccated motel strips and failed roadblocks. 

“Where are we going?”

“Away.”

The middle of nowhere is the only place V can find true solitude. Or, at least as enjoy isolation as much as he can be while bearing the brunt of his godforsaken curse. 

And he thought the worst part of the whole transaction would be dying. Didn’t consider incessant nagging as part of the torturous process until it’s perched in the passenger seat. 

Both of them seriously doubt that anyone was regularly taking the Porsche out for weekly drives to keep it in any semblance of a good condition. The brakes and belts squeal and groan in their use, with V partially convinced that the whole car was about to rattle apart going forty-five around a bend.

Just focusing on the road, on the feeling of his palms gripping the steering wheel, and the muffled tinkering of sand and grit whipping against the car. Speeding up, he taps the brakes hard a few times until he’s back down to thirty before repeating it.

“The fuck are you doing?” Johnny demands, about ready to bite V’s head off for abusing his car.

“Can’t you be quiet for  _ ten minutes?” _ V snaps, white-knuckling the wheel. The sudden outburst of anger makes Johnny shut his jaw with a click, but he’s still glaring daggers into the side of V’s face.

Repeating the cycle a few times, he brings the Porsche up to speed before now gradually slowing to cruise. The brakes have lost their painful screeching, broken in after so long laying in disuse.

“Was clearing the rust off your brakes, prick.”

Johnny doesn’t say anything, and his energy has shifted minutely. No longer frothing at the mouth with indignant anger, but simmering. An edge of sheepishness softens the hard lines of his features as his silence both apologizes and thanks V.

The gratitude doesn’t last too long. A particularly nasty pothole in the road, obscured by loose dust and mirages, makes the car jerk to the side upon hitting it. Both men swear under their breaths, V instantly more focused on the overall health of the car than the owner’s rage beside him. Has no clue how old the tires are and if they’re capable of withstanding something as everyday potholes and sewer drain covers.

“Jesus fuckin’ christ, V,” Johnny grits as the merc begins to pull off the road, “anywhere else in the fuckin’ world that isn’t a god damn desert.  _ Anywhere—”  _

“Get out of the car.”

The moment the car is put in park and the engine is turned off, V is out of his seat and slamming the door shut behind him. Kneeling beside the front tire, he gives it a cursory look-over to ensure that there’s no damage before standing upright and training his eyes on the rockerboy.

He’s got his arms crossed, impatiently waiting for news on his precious baby’s health. Leaning, he settles his weight on the hood of the car, making it dip.

V’s eyes track the bob of the car’s suspension in response to the added weight before snapping back to Johnny with a dangerous glint in them.

“What, are you done wrecki—”

He’s blindsided, too busy scrutinizing the superficial scratches in the paint to process V’s fist connecting with his face and sending his glasses skittering to the pavement until his nose is gushing. Didn’t even notice him move before he’s cradling his face as artificial pain blossoms against the metal of his palm. 

“Ugh,  _ fuck!” _ he groans, tilting his head subtly to alleviate the ache of being unceremoniously whipped to the side. Has half the mind to complain about the impromptu paint job until he can see waves of irritation radiating off of the merc like heat on blacktop. He did it once; he’ll do it again. 

Johnny clamps his mouth shut, forgetting the overridden need to breathe in favor of staunching the flow. Doesn’t do too well; if he were in a proper body, his nose would be broken and he’d be hemorrhaging across the desert floor. 

The desire to nurse the wound soon subsides when he returns to the present well enough to note the hint of self-satisfaction glazed over the deep-set anger in V’s expression. Silverhand shoots to his feet again, ready to get in the merc’s face, but is sent harshly back into the car with a well-placed palm to his breastbone before he can even spit out a word. 

Without a true physical form, the smack of Silverhand’s head against the windshield does no more damage than squandering the few brain cells that haven’t already been fried with years of substance abuse. V’s turn to crowd into him, his hand finds an easy home at the base of Johnny’s throat. 

With blood now flowing freely from the busted nose, it coats Silverhand’s lips and chin like sloppily-applied makeup. Works into the grooves between Johnny’s teeth as he opens his mouth again. 

“Fuck you,” he spits, head still spinning and reeling from the impact. He looks downright stupid, a sore loser in a bar fight. V sneaks a cruel smile when Johnny closes his eyes, seasick trying to wrestle against his swimming vision.

“Don’t tempt me.”

A low roiling in his guts brings his eyes back into focus. V isn’t kidding. It makes him lift his head in a daze of bewilderment and disbelief, his glare losing its edge of anger to his confusion. 

“You and what cock?” he lamely bites back, not immune to their shared nervous systems dumping each other’s emotions down their throats. 

He’s rewarded for the serrated comment with V easily wrenching him off the hood and slamming him back down, hard enough to rip an airy groan from his chest. Before the breath can return to his lungs, V is pressing his entire body weight down onto his throat.

Pausing. Not contemplating, but letting Johnny’s mind wander where it can in the limited range of oxygen deprivation. 

While infrequent, V does pack. Generally on days that he needs the mental boost and buffer between the rest of the world testing him and his dysphoria. It just so happened to be one of those days; something Johnny should’ve figured by now, but the sudden pressure of V’s bulge against his groin solidifies the doubt. 

“This one.”

The rockerboy only groans, from the cocktail of pain and steadily increasing levels of hormones dulling his anger. His head lulls back against the metal, eyes shut tight to block out the sun and the simulation of a headache coming on. 

There’s no kindness under V’s hands, warmed by the desert heat and seething rage burning beneath his skin. He grabs ahold of Silverhand’s lanky hips and rips him down until he’s flush to V’s groin. Forces him to take the pressure of his cock in slow, rolling ruts. 

“Fuckin’ whore…” Johnny bites, hand sluggishly coming up to wipe the blood from his nose. His engram isn’t designed for this much input, making his movements laggy and glitch-ridden if he tries to move too fast. 

Doesn’t ghost, however. Even with every ability to, he takes the brunt of V’s anger. 

“Roll over.”

“Piss off.”

Where V would typically ask once more with more vitriol and force behind his words, he doesn’t miss a beat as he’s dragging Johnny from the hood by his shirt and spinning him around. It brings a wave of dizziness, head still reeling from multiple impacts. V does him the courtesy of stabilizing that awful spinning against the rain-gray metal, knocking the wind out of him.

“Fuck— careful,” Johnny gasps. 

Not because being tossed around like a ragdoll is too much for him to take, but because he can see the edges of his body start to flicker and shift despite his staying still. Even bracing himself against the hood as best he can, his muscles jerk and twitch involuntarily as he tries to cement himself in V’s environment. 

“Maybe next time—” the merc punctuates with rolls of his hips, “—you’ll fuckin’ think before you talk shit.”

That forces a stifled groan from Johnny. It’s reminiscent of Kerry’s fits of passion. Or rage, when Johnny finally pushed him past his limits with incessant shit-talking and insults. 

The mere thought, mind wandering to backstage quickies and being fucked into countless concrete floors, is enough to make him start filling out. Even without the hard contour of V’s cock catching against the seam of his jeans and forcing his hips to angle up with every movement. 

When his legs start drifting closed, grasping and clawing for a sense of control where V’s robbed him of it, he’s rewarded with the merc pulling back just enough to kick his legs back open. The force of steel-toed boot to the shin is loyally translated to his parasitic nervous system. He can’t conceal the sharp hiss of an inhale and can feel V’s obnoxious sense of pride wash over him. 

“Get it over with,” Silverhand complains. Always finds a way to sour any intimacy and tries to rush to the next upper hand he has over V. For once, the mercenary isn’t going to allow it.

“Should take you apart right here. Let all of Night City see how fuckin’ easy you are.”

A blush burns at Johnny’s cheeks with the words, smearing blood against his bare arm as he tucks his face away from the thought. It’s not as though anyone can see him, but the notion of it alone makes his guts twist in humiliation. 

Hands easily work under him, unbuckling his belt and ripping it from its loops. Doesn’t pop his button or fly before V’s tugging his pants down to mid-thigh, causing the rockerboy to hiss with the burning friction of the pleather against his bare skin. It pops on its own, undoubtedly tearing the button through as V rips it low enough to get what he wants. 

There’s something markedly different about V’s dominance that separates him from his memories of Kerry. Unlike the vocalist, V doesn’t lave over the wounds as they come like a kiss over a bite, doesn’t offer unspoken apologies where his actions bring sharp pain to the surface. He doesn’t provide that reassurance in the moment but lets it culminate. 

Makes his head spin. Being treated like a mindless toy meant to be abused. It makes his cock twitch in his briefs where he’s still confined, getting off on the rough treatment as much as he flinches and grinds his teeth against it. 

With his shirt rucked up his back and V sliding his briefs over the swell of his ass, he can’t help but sink into the hood. The warmth of the sun against artificial skin is pleasant, calming in the wake of V’s rage. 

“Want it that bad?” V taunts as Johnny subtly angles his hips back when the merc spreads him open. Johnny only peeks at him through his hair with a scorching glare. 

Crudely, as they are without lube or any other means to slick themselves, V spits onto his hole before pressing two digits past the tight ring of muscle. The abrupt intrusion makes Johnny tense and gasp outwardly at the discomfort, boots scuffling against the loose dirt and sand as he tries to widen his stance and alleviate the ache. 

Working cruel and fast, he fucks his fingers hard enough Johnny to make the rockerboy’s shoulders draw up around his ears. He tries to fight down any positive noises that may serve as further encouragement, but he’s powerless to stop the surprised groan when V stuffs a third finger into him and strikes his sweet spot. 

V pulls out to spit again, acutely aware of the pain that dry friction brings. He’s mean, but he’s not  _ that  _ mean. There’s some pain that he will not inflict, and anything concerning his or his partner’s intimate health is where he draws the line. His temper falls to the back burner as he preps the other man. 

Johnny thanks him with a soft moan, cock throbbing where it’s still caught in the front of his underwear. The start of a plea burns his tongue, caught up in his pride. 

“V, I—”

“Relax,” he instructs, stern and unbudging, and the man beneath him is all but scrambling to obey. Spreading his legs further, he’s arching up off the car as V’s fingers hammer away where he needs them most. 

Even in spite of the pulsing ache working from his nose up to cradle his temples, his mouth falls open in abject pleasure. His shoulders pinch together, tensing and coiling for the moment of release. 

But it doesn’t come. He deflates, sinking back down as V withdraws his fingers, thighs quaking subtly as he still teeters on the knife’s-point of orgasm. Where his ego tries to slink back with its tail between its legs, V swats at it mercilessly. 

“So needy,” he spits nastily. Ends his sentence with a crude, open-palmed slap to Johnny’s ass. V watches as the flesh stains red and the muscles beneath his skin fight for control, matching the blush creeping along Johnny’s shoulders and back. 

“Fuckin’— give it to me.”

“Already begging, Johnny?”

“Shut up.”

A nauseatingly sweetened hum vibrates V’s throat as he takes a proper fistful of Silverhand’s ass and spreads him again. Watching as his knuckles sink again, deeper, into the rockerboy. 

“Bet you could cum like this. Wouldn’t even have to play with your cock.”

Johnny throws a venomous look over his shoulder, pretty lipstick dripping down into the hollow of his throat now. Sparkling in the sunshine even where it grows tacky. But any vitriol dies on his tongue as V teases out his prostate again.

Gives the merc a front-row seat as his eyes roll. Looks like a fucking  _ doll, _ the way he relaxes and tries to push himself back against the pressure. A true shame that he decided on the rocker lifestyle—would have made a killing on the streets. 

Leaning over his back, pumping his fingers in and out of him with enough force to jerk Johnny’s body against the hood, V’s other hand floats up from his throat to the rockerboy’s jaw. Just once, his thumb strokes his facial hair, working the blood further into his skin before it trails over his lower lip, parted in gasping breaths.

There’s no exchange necessary for Johnny to understand. Angling to allow V to press into his mouth, he dutifully suckles on his digits like the best of them. Tongue working between index and middle, he groans around them. The taste of his own blood mingles with the saltiness of sweat and gunmetal of V, coating his tongue and soothing over his bristling hackles.

V’s motions are distracted now, attention latched onto the warm and wet suction of Johnny’s mouth. Instills a sense of pride for a fleeting moment before V regains consciousness. Johnny’s cock uselessly drools into the cotton of his briefs, filled out and throbbing, as V fucks him open with aching strikes to his sweet spot.

“God damn, Johnny,” V breathes, crowding against his backside to rut against him, “better for your body than your attitude.” That earns him a nip. The merc retaliates by gagging Johnny before retracting his hand entirely. 

In a show of opposition, his trademark brattiness shining through the cloud of lust and pain hazing his mind, he spits onto the car’s hood to rid the taste of V from his mouth.

He’s about ready to snap something, really anything as his thoughts come disjointed and sluggish, as V leaves his hole empty and fluttering around nothing. 

Before he gets the chance to use the freedom of his tongue for no-good, his jaw snaps shut and he tenses. 

V makes quick work of his belt, letting it hang open as he draws his cock out of his fly and slicks himself on Johnny’s blood and drool. 

Feeling it rut against him, the tip catching on his puffy rim before passing over in a tease, makes Johnny growl low in his throat. Impatient. Volatile in how he jumps from fighting V in his dominance and close to begging for him to stretch him open and take him on the side of a deserted highway.

Didn’t pack light for this trip; Johnny’s guts twist into knots of fervid anticipation as he gets a good feel for V’s cock. Certainly not something to sniff at, with length rivaling his own and girth that makes him terribly excited. He tilts his hips back, trying so desperately to get V to penetrate him, tease the merc into fucking him, but all he gets for his show is a tight fist in the back of his shirt.

“Hurry up,” his words come out huffed, needy as his thoughts trudge through molasses to work out of his lungs. His eyes slide closed as V passes for another tease, the make-do lube too much and not enough all at once. His cock twitches as the merc pointedly ignores it. 

The comment earns him an open-palmed slap to the meat of his ass as V sets him back in his place. A half-second lags by as his brain is used in a cruel game of tug-of-war, caught like a fly in amber between all-consuming lust and the venom spit of an angry snake, before his hips jerk in response. 

“Shut the fuck up,” V says lowly. It’s hard to conceal his own arousal from contaminating his growl. Though the circumstances aren’t exactly typical, he does want to take his time—not only for the sake of Johnny’s hole but also because of the atypical role reversal. To objectify Silverhand so thoroughly is a rare opportunity. “Hole’s too pretty to ruin it with talkin’.”

The backhanded compliment isn’t lost on the rockerboy, even with attention occupied elsewhere— namely the catch of the head of V’s cock on his rim—and he basks in it. V thinks he’s _ pretty.  _

Any sense of self is washed out as if by photo flash as the merc’s hands find their home on his hips and pull him back. It’s not gentle, by any means, but it’s gratifying and overwhelming and rapturous as V’s cock slides easily into his guts. 

Any struggle against the movement is fruitless; V has him precisely where he wants him. His toes curl in his boots, the tips just barely scraping the grit of the road as he’s fucked up off of his feet. 

“Should’a done this sooner,” the merc remarks, mostly to himself. Presses his hips flush against Johnny meticulously, carefully distributing pain with pleasure. 

Johnny balls his hands into fists, biting down harshly on his firm index to avoid crying out. The stretch wets Johnny’s tear line, making him flush novel shades of red with the pressure of holding his breath. A choked groan is punched out with a minute roll of V’s hips. 

“Jesus, fuck,” he ekes out, the syllables forcing their way around his fingers. Weak tremors wrack his body, a heady union of arousal and apprehension wiring him through like electrocution. 

Allowing a few moments of acclimation, Johnny’s hole fluttering around the base of his cock where his body is struggling to regulate the internal pressure deep inside of him, V pets the dimples at the small of his back almost soothingly.

“There you go, pretty boy,” V hums, a low growl seated in the back of his throat, “took it like the bitch you are.”

The tandem of praise and humiliation makes Silverhand groan. Color sits high on his cheeks at the appraisal, the little pet name V has sparingly doled out. Must’ve caught the faint signal of his thoughts, how Johnny momentarily floundered at the mere thought of being attractive in such a sweet, demure, and submissive way. 

He feeds into it, seeing as it only draws more fight out of the rockerboy like an asphyxiated syringe.

Easing his hips back, he only pulls out halfway before he forces himself deep as he can once more. Doesn’t deprive Johnny of the fullness, keeping his hole snugly wrapped around his cock as he fucks into him shallowly. 

Just the slightest rocking makes Johnny groan breathlessly, shoulders rolling as he struggles not to tense against the splitting size of V’s cock. Curved just right to grind against his prostate with each pass, it makes his head buzz and his thighs quiver as V steadily fucks into him with long strokes.

Blood and spit do little in the way of lube, but it’s certainly better than nothing. Silverhand shuffles, shifting his feet apart best as he can with his jeans restraining his range of movement. Rocks back onto his heels as he bounces back into the force of V’s easy thrusts, sending sparks up his spine and white spots to flash behind his eyes.

“Really are just a dumb babe, huh?” V says snidely, gradually stilling to let Johnny work himself. 

He hardly notices that the merc has stopped moving entirely, fixated on pleasuring himself on his strap. Hair curtaining his face, head hanging between his shoulders as he draws up onto his elbows for leverage, he can only huff and pant.

_ Babe.  _ That’s new. Can’t say he doesn’t like it, not when his heart flutters like a caged bird, preening and stretching into the indirect compliments. 

V settles back somewhat, content to watch the rockerboy pull himself apart at the seams. The rudimentary cyberware does offer stimulation of its own, but most of his pleasure comes from watching Silverhand unabashedly ride him, quickly upping the intensity from his initially-shy bounces. 

Ripping gasps and sighs from his own lips, he takes the scrap of control he’s given and runs with it. With the under-lubed push and pull of V’s cock, he can’t go as fast as he might like, but it’s more than sufficient to fill the gaps of noise between gusts of wind and shifting sand. V can’t help himself; he takes a moment to admire the forces of impact rippling up the swell of his ass.

For all his concern for the car now discarded in favor of chasing his climax, the plaintive creaking of the car’s suspension falls on deaf ears. Practically pushes the car back down the road just for the extra momentum. 

“Better hold it. Didn’t tell you to cum yet,” V reminds him. He can feel the words vibrate in Johnny’s skull, initially ignored, until they finally take on meaning. A half-nod is easily lost in translation in the buck of his hip. 

When his hips still, pressing back against V’s cock, to prevent his early finish, the merc finds his footing beneath himself again. Tests his resolve as he fucks into Johnny again, wresting the choice from him. 

“V, I can’t—”

The merc doesn’t remind him again, set on forcing it out of him despite his best efforts to control his release. Where his hands were neatly cupping the slight curve of his body, one migrates to the center of his back to weigh him down, forcing his upper body flat to the car as V thrusts into him. 

A rising staccato of gasping breaths is ripped from Johnny’s throat as he desperately tries to hold back to no avail. Each piping moan only spurs V into being rougher with his partner, until Johnny is only touching the desert floor with the tips of his boots.

Groaning, Johnny calls V’s name in a messy, warbling note as his cock spills into his briefs. Throbbing and pulsing, cum coats and seeps through the fabric in fat droplets. His orgasm is milked to its end as V doesn’t relent— if anything, he doubles down now that he doesn’t have to fixate on Johnny’s climax.

“I’m not done with you,” V grits, much to Johnny’s horrified pleasure. He keens as V strikes his sweet spot mercilessly, fleecing another pathetic spurt of cum from him. With a handful of swears and hitching growls-turned-groans, Johnny reflexively bears down around V as if it’ll slow the onslaught of blinding pleasure. 

“V, it-ah—” he tries, thighs noticeably trembling each time they clap against V’s.

“Shut up and take it,” V orders. His nails dig in without remorse as the rush of Johnny’s orgasm floats over their connection. It’s muted, much like the clench of Silverhand’s fluttering hole around the cyberware, and he fucks Johnny straight into his second wind. 

Or the closest he can get to one in the face of insurmountable overstimulation. 

It knocks the breath out of V for a moment, even a sliver of Johnny’s world-shattering high running freely over their tether. He stills as his head buzzes, and Johnny protests the sudden stop. 

“Give it— V, need it,” he all but chants with how stilted the words tumble out. Better than any shitty porn V could scrounge up. 

He doesn’t even rise to the demand, still recovering from the input injected straight into his brain. Isn’t even pulled back to the present until Johnny’s practically impaling himself back on V’s cock. Punishes the disobedience by another forceful slap to Johnny’s ass. 

He’s pitiful, shivering like a newborn fawn and spilling pre with each strike against his prostate. Hardly even needs V’s movement as he hurtles himself towards his next release. 

Before long, V’s mindfulness returns to him. Just as Silverhand’s clearly beginning to peak, V pulls out completely. His hole bears down on nothing, gaped prettily as he cries out his frustration. Sounds more like the coyotes V had heard from ancient documentaries than anything human as it echoes off the rock outcroppings. Snarling and guttural and stunted. 

Loudest he’d ever heard him outside of concert memories. 

“Fuckin’ needy bitch,” V growls, leaning back enough to let a thick line of spit trail from his lips and onto— or rather,  _ into— _ Johnny’s wrecked hole. “Good thing you’re pretty.”

The rockerboy doesn’t have the brains left to even think about the blunt words, the barbs nor the sweetness. All he knows now is to push his hips back and whine obnoxiously. 

“Think I knocked somethin’ loose,” V muses to himself dryly, having to settle a hand at the small of Johnny’s back to stop him from forcing V away. 

Pressing the tip of his cock against Silverhand’s abused hole, he slides in with no resistance. Still doesn’t stop him from groaning, open and broken like a cheap whore at the resulting stretch. 

His second release had been brutally cut short with the only clue that it even hit him being the pitiful spit of cum his spent cock managed. 

He collects his arms beneath him and pushes himself up onto his hands in his bid to get off, using V’s lapse in clarity to ride him. They tremble as V knocks the bated breath loose but refuse to buckle, even as V selfishly chases his own end. 

“V-V— shit,” Johnny pants, tongue lolling in his mouth stupidly as he drools onto the hood of his car. It mingles with the blood that steadily drips from his busted nose, making the surface slick as he tries to brace on it. 

Thighs clapping loudly against one another, V fucks into the rockerboy with deep, punishingly hard thrusts that drive maddening pleasure through Johnny’s every byte of reality. The feedback loop only adds to the minute stimulation he receives from the cyberware, leaving him sweating and huffing low grunts and sighs of his own. 

“Shit, need it,” he heaves, requiring every ounce of his remaining strength to make his words coherent enough. He isn’t sure the cyberware is even able to fill him up, but their semi-synchronized brains more than make up for any lack of physical capabilities. 

“Be patient,” V grits. Embarrassingly enough, the sheer desperation woven through Johnny’s tone and the need to throw himself back against the merc is more than enough to tug him unceremoniously towards the edge. He feels it in the tips of his toes, threatening him, but he fights it. 

Takes the time to admire the curve of Johnny’s back, the way his muscles respond to the impact of a thrust. Has no clue if Johnny would ever let him do something like this again, so he’s going to savor it. 

Silverhand throws his head back again, betraying his cross over the finish line once more. His poor cock can’t even supply any more cum; it merely throbs and jerks pitifully between his legs. It’s a newfound point of pride for V— he’d never seen nor felt Johnny react so dramatically with another partner in all of the memories he’d been forced to bear witness to. For all his bravado and boasting, he has a track record of ‘one and done.’

“How bad you need it, babe?” V eggs him on, the lascivity in Johnny’s tone like music to his ears. 

_ “V,” _ he groans like a gutted man. “Fuckin’— wreck me.”

V chuckles lightly at that. He’s long since past the point of ruin, hole now hardly protesting as it swallows V’s girth. 

“Good boy.”

Through all the filth that he’s been spewing, that one sliver of sweetness breaches the thick smog of world-rending pleasure. Johnny whines, tight through his overworked throat, at the praise. Soaks it up, much like the dry dirt beneath them easily does away with the traces of Johnny’s multiple loads.

Now much kinder, having had the time to truly work the anger out of him, V steadies the rockerboy and keeps him from buckling at the knees as he draws out slowly. Hasn’t really been angry since Johnny’s second climax, too preoccupied with the debased state of the engram. Too busy enjoying the process of reducing Johnny to begging, leaving his thoughts stretched thin over the bubble of another impending release.

“C’mon,” V coaxes, helping the man as he all but provides deadweight, “you want it, you gotta work with me.”

Johnny puffs in frustration, yet again robbed of the fulfilling pressure in his guts. Nothing else comes, though, as he has long lost his tongue and attitude. Sluggishly, he manages to make his limbs respond to his wishes as he’s rolled onto his back. His pants are kicked off one boot to hang around the other, neither bothered enough to fully strip him bare.

What he doesn’t expect is a slight smile, tinted with ardor, as V looks down at him. Makes Johnny’s breath hitch uncomfortably, a flash of self-consciousness freezing him in place as textured palms run up his sides. It’s soon to be washed over, V feeling the twinge of discomfort and see the slight furrow in his brows.

“Cute.”

“V…” Johnny mumbles. Bashful. He doesn’t think before he grabs the hem of his shirt and draws it up over his chin, hiding the bottom quarter of his face as he averts his eyes. Doesn’t help his case as it makes V’s eyes soften. “Hurry up.”

“You’re not in a good spot to boss me around,” V chuckles, warmth returning to his tone. Not enough to completely diminish his dominant position, but enough to ease any apprehension still tugging at Johnny’s shoulders. 

One hand steadies on Johnny’s side, just above his hip, while the other slides down again to line himself up. As he slides home, he can’t help but watch Johnny’s expression twist up into one of unadulterated pleasure. Even gets to catch a glimpse of the whites of Johnny’s eyes as they roll back, just before his eyelids slip closed again. 

It’s not flattery; he truly is pretty. Framed by his blood-matted locks and a ring of sweat eagerly evaporating in the sun, he’s elegant in an entirely debauched way. 

“I need it,” he repeats, a whisper this time. Hardly moves his lips as V takes on a casual pace until they fall open again in a silent keen. 

Seeking a foothold, the heel of his boots notch against the fender, giving V a better vantage point to fully sheathe himself. Rolls his hips as well as his energy-sapped form allows, trying to focus on V’s pleasure for once in his life. 

“You— you like it?” Silverhand speaks, eyes only partially opening again to watch V’s own peak sneak up on him. Much more gradual with the delayed feedback, but still building. He can see it in the way V’s breaths grow shallower, quicker, and how beads of sweat adorn him like a fine necklace. 

He’s not one to willingly act as a living sex toy for his partner, as much as he might seem a pillow princess. Relinquishing that hold on that obsolete symbol of masculinity is necessarily as dramatic as a dam bursting, and V drinks from the resulting deluge enthusiastically.

“Close,” V warns, fingers spreading for a better grip on Johnny’s side. He white-knuckles the mimic-flesh as he presses deeper, firmer into Johnny’s rim. 

“C’mon,” Johnny pants, “give it to me.”

His mind has gone blissfully numb. Pleasure no longer processes as his coding blocks further stimulation from frying him and tearing apart his already precarious situation with reality. The heavy slap of their bodies against each other and the deep pressure of his cock rearranging his guts still results in hitching gasps and groans. 

All he is now is a warm, whimpering cock sleeve for V.

Nuzzling into his shirt, his hand that isn’t holding the hem over his mouth finds V’s arm and grips it. Grabbing his wrist tightly as the dulled waves of yet another orgasm ripple through him, building into a powerful surge.

Eyes fluttering shut just as they start to roll, Johnny can only sigh. Body weakened from the marathon of climaxes, he can only twitch and shudder like he’s succumbing. In a way, he is; brain sinking into a dark space where he only knows warmth and washed out pleasure. Nothing else registers, not even the final thrust as V slides home with a growling groan.

What does bring his eyes back into focus is the odd warmth filling him, heat spreading through his belly as V’s hips jerk in the wake of his orgasm. It takes a few blinks and steadied breaths to even begin to wonder what the sensation is, but the moment it clicks into place, he’s sagging against the car and canting his hips to draw V in deeper.

Pumping his cum into the rockerboy, he milks himself in shallow thrusts until it edges on overstimulation. Stubborn unlike any other, if only because of the other man’s mental influence on him, he refuses to listen to his body’s protests as he makes sure his load is as deep as possible.

The cyberware is good for one thing, if not for physical sensation alone— an excess of synthetic cum leaks out around V’s cock as he continues to roll his hips. Thoroughly itches the scratch he didn’t know he had, to see Johnny dripping with his seed and looking drunk with how thoroughly fucked he is.

“Jesus, V,” he finally exhales. Gradually, he sinks back into himself, grounded by the steady drip of V from his rim and the borderline-uncomfortable pressure tugging at his stomach with the merc fully buried. Not enough to pull away, but plenty to remind him of their configuration. 

“Like that?” V asks, winded. His body isn’t nearly as quick in recovery as Johnny’s, forced into pleasant exhaustion by biological constraints. The once-suffocating anger has subsided from his tone, delving more into ranges of contentment. 

“Can’t complain,” he concedes. Far too much effort to try and conceal the creepings of shame into the corners of his mind—V’s seen all of him and more in the span of a few minutes. Any lie would fall on deaf ears anyway. 

“That’s it?” V chuckles. It’s gentle humor that seems to have the best chances of getting the rockerboy to open up. Beyond fucking the sentiment out of him. 

In a blink of V’s eyes, the shades have found their perch on Johnny’s nose again despite the remaining crust of blood coloring his upper lip. He looks as casual as a sunbather, bearing no semblance to the embodied definition of joytoy he was a moment ago. Beyond the cock he’s still impaled on. 

“Just think you’re encouraging bad behavior, is all,” Johnny says. V can feel his gaze flick back to him from where it was resting on the horizon. The slight tug of Silverhand’s lip into a half-smirk eases the rustle of annoyance in V’s chest. “Just wanna piss you off more now. If this is my punishment, why the hell not?”

“Brat,” V puffs, although it’s lighthearted. The slight smile stretches wider across Johnny’s features at that.

**Author's Note:**

> [lambchop's twitter](https://twitter.com/commanderbait)   
>  [cowboyflesh’s twitter](https://twitter.com/silverdynes)


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